Crossing Paths
by foxtrotter
Summary: *SUPERWHOLOCK high school AU* Sam and Dean are shipped off to British boarding school for a year, where they meet Sherlock Holmes, 'the Doctor', Castiel Novak, John Watson, Amy Pond, and Rory Williams, who each share problems of a different nature. With each dealing with their own feelings, fears and pasts- they begin to find solace in each other.
1. Chapter 1

_***Disclaimer- I'm not at all affiliated with Sherlock, Doctor Who or Supernatural, I just like writing and experimenting with characters for fun***_

**A/N: Hi guys- there's a few things I'd like to mention before you read that might clear up some things you might wonder after reading-**

**1. Though it's just tagged as SPN/Sherlock this is a SUPERWHOLOCK fanfiction, meaning Supernatural, Sherlock and Doctor Who will all be included equally.  
2. Mycroft is Sherlock's uncle, not brother, and is principal of the academy. He also raised Sherlock.  
3. DW is set during the era of Eleven- hence Amy and Rory, and later some Oswin and River.  
4. I'm going to include as many/few main characters from each fandom as I deem necessary- over-doing numbers it will make the story confusing and messy.  
5. Some characters will be adults- such as Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Bobby, Naomi, Brian etc (I'll be careful to clarify)**.

Arbinghill Academy lay hidden in the surroundings of lakes and mountains, shielding the old Baroque building from the outside world. Its decorative towers and spires rose as high as some of the lower hills, but it was the inside that made it wonderful. Almost every furnishing was made of mahogany, the floors and walls were stone, with high ceilings supported by magnificent pillars. Great arched windows looked out on to the four surrounding great lakes and miles of gardens and fields. Centuries old, with former pupils including some of the most well-known names in recent history, Arbinghill Academy was doubtlessly an honour and a pleasure for any student lucky enough to be accepted into it.

Dean Winchester hated it.

He hated the size of the building, the colours, and the smell. He hated the mountains that isolated him, he hated the stuck-up teachers and students and most of all, he hated the fact it would be his home for the next year.

John Winchester didn't get out of the car with his sons. Starting at a new school wasn't anything new, and Dean knew his father wouldn't treat this occasion any differently, despite the fact it wasn't quite the same as crossing a few states and sleeping in a motel a few nights. He and his younger brother Sam were being dumped in the middle of the English countryside, to an apparently highly-prestigious academy and wouldn't see their father for nine months.

As the sleek black 1967 Chevrolet Impala made a bold reverse before speeding out of the car park, Dean felt something in his stomach; a feeling he was used to- A sense of abandonment.

Suppressing it, he looked down at his thirteen year-old brother Sam, who was staring up at the massive mahogany double doors. School had started two days ago, but John had last-minute work to do which caused the delay.

The reason they were going to school in England instead of America was because an old friend of John's was the vice principal. John was always a little cagey when he spoke of Bobby Singer, but he assured the boys they could trust him.

"Will I, uh, knock?" Asked Sam tentatively, reaching up for the brass knocker.

"Well they're too stuck up for a damn doorbell, apparently." Dean muttered, banging the knocker three times on the heavy door.

Sam picked up his backpack and took a step back as the door began to open. A young woman with a kind smile and sandy ponytail stood before them.

"You must be the Winchesters." She smiled. "I'm Mar- no, no, I mean Mrs Hudson. I'm Mrs Hudson, yes…" She trailed off, realising they weren't coming in. "Oh, come in please, it's supposed to rain this evening." She held the door back, and the boys stepped through in silence, as she held it open. Her mouth opened, and then closed again. "Is your… um… Are your parents parking the car?"

Sam and Dean exchanged a blank look. "What do you mean?" Asked Sam, frowning.

Mrs Hudson looked embarrassed. "I… um… You're not alone, are you?"

Sam shook his head, and a wave of relief passed over Mrs Hudson's face. "No, of course not." He said. "We came together."

The relief vanished instantly.

"Excuse me a moment." She said, as she disappeared up a flight of stairs.

Sam scratched his head, suppressing a smile. Even the foyer was impressive. He'd read books about fortresses and castles- he'd never thought he'd see one, never mind live in one.

He glanced at Dean, who had said nothing since they had come in, only frowning into space. Sam found it was easier to say nothing when he frowned like that.

Mrs Hudson re-appeared, this time with a ruddy-faced man with red hair and a deep frown that seemed natural to his face round. "This is Principal Mycroft Holmes, as I'm sure you know," She explained, beaming slightly. "He'll sort you out, and I'll just…" She nodded at Mycroft before leaving them.

Principal Holmes was young for a principal; he couldn't be older than early forties. He had a round stomach which was held tightly by his tweed brown suit. His hair was reddish brown and slicked back as a poor attempt to hide how much it was thinning. He was holding two small folders with the initials S.W. on one and D.W. on the other.

He lead them to the steps him and Mrs Hudson had descended from, bringing them up to his office, a small grey room with a trophy case and a desk covered in paperwork and half-empty coffee cups.

Holmes sat down, leaving Sam and Dean to stand. "I'm Mycroft Holmes, principal of Arbinghill Academy." He said, scanning through their folders. "I realise you faced delays on your journey and are two days late for term. Classes began today, but I'm sure you didn't miss anything too relevant. I hope you feel very welcome here at Arbinghill, you'll find leaflets with a more thorough explanation on your bedside tables. Now, about sleeping arrangements…"

"We're sharing a room, right?" Dean asked, his voice sharp.

Mycroft looked up, unamused. "Why, of course not." He answered shortly. "You're Dean, I presume…" He opened the first page of the D.W. folder, scanning it. "Ah, you are heading for seventeen I see, and your brother is now thirteen. It wouldn't be practical for you to share a room at this age, really. Besides, you will be sleeping in dormitories, and you will be allocated based on age and ability-"

"Ability?" Sam piped up curiously.

"We assessed your progress in your former schools, I dare say it took some time to assess them all. Samuel, you will be in Third Year, and Dean you will be Sixth Year. Third Year dormitories are in the Trenzalore Tower and Sixth dormitories are in the Baskerville Tower. Samuel you will be on the first floor of yours, Dean you will be on the third."

"This is bullshit." Dean growled.

Mycroft sat up, not looking particularly shocked, just unimpressed. "All students have a file which records their behaviour-good and bad. Every time a teacher or prefect reports an offense, a stroke will be added to your file. After three strokes, you will receive detention, and that applies for every three strokes that follow. If you receive twelve, you will report to your national representative and accept the punishment they deem fit."

Dean snorted, stepping towards the principal's desk. "National representative, what do we have an embassy or something?"

Mycroft sighed, shoving aside some folders and a plate of cake crumbs aside so he could rest his elbows on the desk. "Because of the prestige of Arbinghill Academy, we accept students from all over the world, stretching from Dublin to New Delhi, from Sydney to Berlin, from Hong Kong to…" His face formed an almost comical grimace. "Kansas, apparently."

Dean glared across the desk in silence.

"Each country has a representative, to make the students feel more at home. Your representative is Naomi; you'll find her at breakfast lunch or dinner in the Dining Hall at the representative's table." He paused, eyeing Sam for a moment. "I hope you do Lawrence proud." He said flatly, waving a hand to dismiss them.

"Son of a bitch," muttered Dean as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "I swear if everyone's this much of an asshole, I'll be out of here like a bat out of hell."

As they reached the foyer, there was a buzz of talking and laughter from the other side of the wall. Moving towards the door in unison, the brothers each pressed their ears against it.

"Should we go in?" Sam wondered aloud.

Dean hesitated, and then shrugged, shoving the door open, with Sam right behind him. They found themselves at the very top of the hall, with some eight hundred faces staring at them.

Across the hall, John Smith was smiling to himself as he picked at his chicken breast with his fork. He was two days into his third year at Arbinghill and he was so glad to be back with his best friends, Amy Pond and Rory Williams.

He had known nobody when he first started two years before, and he hadn't had much luck with making friends in primary school back in London, and when he started at Arbinghill he assumed that wouldn't change.

At the community school he went to before his gran aunt left his parents a load of money in her will was tedious. For as long as he could remember, there was some kind of joke going around about John where people used to shout 'Doctor, Doctor," whenever they passed him. It started when he was only a small boy who used to spend all of his school breaks picking up injured birds or squirrels or hedgehogs, and spend weeks nursing them back to health. He never understood how the name 'Doctor' tied in with this, but eventually the name stuck and the name John Smith disappeared forever.

Doctor's brown fringe fell into his eyes and he flicked it back, grinning. Across from him sat Amy and Rory, who were deep in discussion about who would win in a fight, Amy or Mike Tyson.

"I'd kick his ass!" Amy was arguing indignantly, "And you know it!" She gave Rory a cheeky grin. "I'll kick yours sooner than you'd see it coming."

"Alright, alright- easy there, cowgirl." Doctor laughed, as Rory's face turned from white to pink to whiter again.

At almost fourteen years old, the Doctor had had to beg the school the keep him in Third Year with Amy and Rory. What made it twice as difficult was that his grades were equal to some Seventh Years, and the school strongly discouraged dumbing yourself down for the sake of your friends.

His ears perked up suddenly as the hall became quiet, and he looked around to see two students he'd never encountered before, shuffling awkwardly across the back wall. The smaller one was his age or younger, he was short with floppy brown hair and was wearing a dishevelled hoodie and frayed jeans. His face reminded Doctor of a lost fawn, with wide eyes and bandy legs. The older one was wearing a heavy brown jacket that was far too big for him, had lighter hair and an intense scowl on his face.

He met eyes with the smaller boy, and sensing his embarrassment, he realised he wasn't the only one staring, and quickly tried to draw attention away from them. He picked up one of the glass jugs of water and smashed it on the floor.

In the silence, the noise was deafening.

No-one noticed how purposefully he had smashed it, but they were all looking around the room for the source of the sound. Doctor noticed the two boys move quickly along the wall, towards the Rep's Table, and caught a grateful smile from the younger boy. He returned an encouraging thumbs-up, before turning back to Rory and Amy.

"What did you do that for?" Rory asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Do what?" Doctor asked innocently.

"Smash the bloody jug?" Amy offered.

Doctor shrugged. "I don't know, I felt bad for those people everybody was staring at."

Rory frowned. "If people are staring, it's not your responsibility to distract them. We all have to deal with those things." Something crossed Rory's face that surprised the Doctor, and he stared at him for a moment too long.

"Oi, when you're finished daydreaming." Amy grinned, poking Doctor across the table with her spoon.

Rory opened his mouth to reply but Amy waved him off, and nodded at the Rep's table. The two lost students were making their way along the table, before stopping in front of a woman with light ginger hair eating a salad.

"Americans." Rory said quietly, squinting from behind his glasses. He pointed at the small American flag card in front of her plate.

"Euch, Naomi." Grimaced Amy, making vomiting gestures. "That cow gave me a stroke last year leaving my hair down, I mean that's not even a rule!"

"Do you think the smaller one could be in our year?" Rory asked.

"There's an extra bed in our dorm, so I'd say so." Doctor replied.

"Jeez, he's tiny." Amy grinned. "Poor bloke might be my height by the time he's thirty."

Dean glanced at Sam before clearing his throat loudly in front of Naomi. "Excuse me, ma'am." He said, but Naomi did not look up. He tried again. "Er, ma'am. My brother and I were told to come to you-"

"I'm not finished." There was a severity to her voice that surprised Sam and Dean equally. They exchanged a confused shrug, and waited for her to finish her last piece of tomato. When she looked up, she had a wide smile that looked as if it had been painted on to her face.

"Winchester brothers, I assume? Sam and Dean, hi. I'm Naomi; I'm your American representative. I'll be staying in the school for the year, monitoring your progress."

"Hey."

"Hello."

"If you have any problems during the year, or any questions, come to me and I will do my upmost to assist you." Her creepy smile returned.

"I've got one now." Dean interjected. "How about any Americans in Third or Sixth Year?"

Naomi raised her eyebrows as she turned a few pages over in her clipboard. "We don't get many Americans, we've about six this year including you two. Let's see, two in First Year, one in Fourth Year and..." Sam noticed something not unlike pride cross her face. "There's one in Sixth Year. Castiel Novak."

Dean snorted, turning to Sam. "I'm sorry… but what kind of cruel jackass names their kid_ Castiel_?"

Every ounce of warmth left Naomi's face. "Cruel "jackasses" like me apparently." She said coldly, enjoying his temporary confused expression. "Castiel Novak is my son."

Sam wanted to rewind the past five minutes and start again. And he wanted to punch Dean for messing things up with the only connection to home he would have all year by being a dick- _again_.

To his surprise (and annoyance), Dean was stifling a laugh. "That explains it." He said. "Come on, Sammy."

Sam could feel Naomi's glare on his back as Dean lead him down to the back of the hall. It wasn't until he saw the tables plated with food that he realised how hungry he was.

Dean was rubbing his hands in anticipation, and finally stopped at the end of a table where a group of four pretty girls were talking animatedly.

"'Scuse me, ladies." He said charmingly. "Uh, any room at the inn?"

They looked to each other for approval before the one closest to him, a dark eyed blonde gave him a wide smile. "Sure is." She replied in a swanky south-English accent.

Dean grinned and sat down at the edge of the bench before beginning to shove himself against her.

"What are you doing?!" She demanded indignantly.

Dean stared at her blankly. "Making room," He jerked his thumb at Sam.

The other three girls turned to Sam, their faces clear: No kids at the table.

"It's alright, I'll move." Sam muttered, shuffling away.

"Like hell you will!" Dean stood up, following him.

Sam's face was weary. "Honestly Dean, give me a chance to do something for myself - You've already screwed up our chances with Naomi, I don't want you screwing up my chances with the people I'm going to have to spend the next year with too, _okay_?"

Dean looked at his brother for a moment, then shrugged. "Alright, it's your call."

Sam turned on his heel and moved back up the table refusing to meet the many eyes that were on him again. He began to move towards the door when he felt a hand on his arm. Instinctively, he ducked it and grabbed it by the forearm. He looked up to see the surprised face of the boy who he had met eyes with earlier.

Sam slowly took his hand away, expecting a sneer or a comment in return but to his surprise, the boy smiled and said, "You look like you could use a seat."

**I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter; there will be more to follow. Comments would be appreciated. Thanks.**


	2. Chapter 2

Sam felt himself staring blankly at the boy for a second- he was gangly and tall with a big tuft of brown hair and an angular but childish face. "You mean- here?" Sam asked hoarsely, terrified that the boy had meant anything other than an invitation to sit next to him.

"No, over there." Answered the red-haired girl sarcastically, her pretty face cracking into a grin.

Sam glanced back at the boy who offered but he was already shifting his seating position to make more room, but Sam was so small he didn't use most of the room he was given. He clambered onto the bench awkwardly, collapsing onto the seat.

"Call me Doctor." Said the boy with a grin.

"Is that your name?" Sam blurted without thinking.

Doctor smiled and shook his head. "Nah, just a nickname. My real name is rubbish."

"Oh you're called Rubbish now, are you?" The red-haired girl teased.

"You know what I mean." Doctor murmured, studying the boy as Amy introduced herself. The American was very short and thin with floppy brown hair and a potentially handsome face that was, despite its youthfulness, lined and darkened under the eyes.

"This is Rory," Amy was saying. "Don't mind him- he's not the most talkative parrot on the pirate ship, are you?" Rory was fumbling with his sleeve, looking uncomfortable. "So what's your name, then?"

"Sam Winchester." He replied, with a small smile. He glanced at Rory and met his eye. This time, Rory didn't retreat, instead he gave Sam an assuring nod and straightened up.

"Where in America are you from?" Rory asked.

"Kansas." Sam replied.

"Lovely there, I'd say." Said Doctor, sitting back and stretching his legs thoughtfully as he reached for a waffle from his plate. "I was in America once. Funny area though- Meridian, Idaho; I can't imagine you've ever been there."

"I was." Sam said quietly. "We moved around a lot. I've been pretty much everywhere."

If said in any other way, Sam's words would have been near to boastful-sounding, but there was something in his voice that made him sound humble and almost sad. Doctor frowned at him, taking in the darkness under his eyes. He couldn't stop staring- Sam's eyes were darker than most adults he knew, it was as if he hadn't slept in months.

"So who was the guy you came in with?" Amy asked, craning her neck to see the end of the table.

"My brother." Sam muttered glumly.

"He's cute." She grinned, finally finding where he was sitting- amongst some of the most popular girls in the school. Her face fell. "But he's got terrible taste. Tell him to steer clear of Bela Talbot, I hear she's a manipulative bitch."

"Dean doesn't really go for personality." He muttered, glancing down at Dean, who appeared to be chatting up the blonde girl with the posh accent. Shrugging, he realised Rory was clenching his fork.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked him, and Rory instantly snapped out of it and dropped the fork on the table.

"What, me? Oh yeah, zoned out, sorry." He apologised quickly, seeming to be speaking more to Amy than Sam.

"Plonker." Said Amy, finishing her water and patting her stomach. "Well, I'm stuffed, boys. I'm heading up to grab a good bed- what about you?"

"Oh yeah!" Doctor turned to Sam. "You're Third Year, aren't you?"

Sam nodded.

"Looks like you're with us then," he winked.

Dean had finished his second plate of dinner when he began to pile some more bacon and potatoes onto his dish, not noticing the fancy girls exchanging queasy glances. The prettiest of the four, whose name he learned was Bela, exchanged a silent word with her friends before clearing her throat purposefully.

"We're going to our rooms now." She said, frowning at his once-again full plate.

"Arhlrirt." Dean's mouth was full, and he had gravy on his chin. Wiping his face quickly, he corrected himself. "Alright," He said instead. "I guess that means me too. You ladies need an escort, you never know with these old castles." His tone was warning, but his face was full of charm and flirtation.

Bela raised a trim eyebrow. "I don't think that will be necessary, we're very capable. And anyway, I doubt you know where the Blackrock Tower is." She said dismissively.

"Well I know where the Baskerville Tower is." Dean pointed out, allowing his eyes to drift south of her face. "And frankly, you can drop by anytime." He didn't wait for a response; he just winked and turned on his heel. He knew that she was going to keep up the witty remarks, and he wanted to get the upperhand this time, though he suspected he would be seeing her again soon.

Exiting the hall and entering the foyer, Dean picked up his rucksack where he had left it and looked for a hint as to where the Baskerville Tower might be.

He noted Sammy leaving a few minutes before with a group his age- two boys and a girl. Pausing, Dean listened and within a few moments heard his brother's familiar chuckle from above. He ran to the nearest staircase and moved up two steps at a time. They were steeper than he expected, and by the time he reached the top, he was slightly out of breath. He took one deep breath to restore his breathing before turning to see Sam and the others turning around a corner.

He followed them and then loudly cleared his throat, and all four turned around. The smile on Sam's face faded to a frown.

"Can I've a word with you for a sec, Sam?" Dean asked, his voice gruff as he eyed up the three kids, looking for a hint of suspicion. One boy was almost his height, and had a wide smile plastered on his face. He had to be high.

"Sorry guys you go ahead." Sam said apologetically, but the redhead shook her head.

"We can wait." She said, smiling at Dean from under her lashes. She was pretty, but young. Maybe in three years, he noted.

Dean wrapped a hand around Sam's shoulders and turned them both away from the group. "You okay, dude?" He asked in a low voice.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm fine, Dean, I don't need a babysitter."

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the tall kid again who seemed to be smiling up at the ceiling. _What the hell?_

"Look, man, if that geeky kid offers you any weird stuff- don't take it, alright? Or else I'll-"

Sam almost burst out laughing. "Doctor isn't high, Dean."

Dean scoffed. "Wait, what, he's not high and his name is _Doctor_? Yeah, right-" He noticed a glare forming on Sam's face and he quickly moved on. "Look, any trouble from anyone about anything, don't be afraid to give 'em a shoe-shining, okay? And if they don't get the message, I'll make sure they do. "

Sam sighed patiently, he was used to being read the right act by his older brother, but he was eager to get back to Doctor and the others. "Can I go now?"

"One more thing-" Dean added quickly, huddling in closer. "The ginge is _totally_ in your league."

**Shorter chapter, I'm sorry, but I'll be putting up another in the next few days and finally I'll be bringing some Sherlock characters in (and Cas)- I appreciate the comments, so if you could keep them coming that would be great, thanks**


	3. Chapter 3

After almost twenty minutes of confusion, Dean finally found his way to the Baskerville Tower- it was a high dark-stone pillar like building, and could only be reached by seemingly endless stairs.

Glowering as he reached the top, Dean found himself facing a heavy oak door- locked. Unsure, he shoved against it, willing it to open. "Son of a bitch!" He growled, kicking it angrily. When it didn't budge, he began to bang on it with his fist, stopping only when he heard voices on the other side. Though muffled through the thick door, he could make out what was being said.

"Send them away, John." The first voice was stern and sharp but clear.

"I'm sorry, _what_?" The second voice was softer, but seemed startled.

"It _is_ John, isn't it? Send away whoever's at the door; I'm thinking."

Dean heard a scowl, and the door opened. A boy not much taller than Sammy with a flat brow and blonde hair frowned up at him. "Sorry there, apparently the common room isn't open for public use until _he_ decides so." The blonde shot a glare across the room, and Dean noticed someone in the corner.

He was tall, even sitting down it was obvious from his long back. He had dark curly hair falling over his forehead. He was thin, with an angular face and sharp cheekbones. He was wearing a purple shirt and black trousers, with his hands pressed together tightly with fingertips resting beneath his chin.

Dean realised the blonde was offering his hand. "John Watson." He said. He stood with a straight back and square shoulders, his hand was standing out straight from his elbow. It reminded Dean of his father, and without thinking found himself doing the same.

"Dean Winchester." He replied, shaking John's hand. He glanced at the dark haired boy. "And who's Bela Lugosi over there?"

"Sherlock Holmes." The dark haired boy said flatly. "And I'm trying to think. One person in the room I can cope with, two of you will surely interact and therefore test my patience. As you may have noticed, I'm thinking, and I need you both to leave."

John's expression was still flat. "See what I'm dealing with?" He shook his head. "Come on, I'll show you the dorm."

As John lead Dean out of the common room and up steps into the dormitory, Dean could feel Sherlock's eyes on his back and it made him unimaginably uncomfortable. He glanced backwards, and met the pale blue eyes seeming to illuminate in the darkness in the shadowed corner Sherlock sat in.

The dormitory was a small, round room made of grey stone. There were six beds around the walls, each with a curtain between them to pull as a partition. There was a window behind each bed and a large trunk at the end that was almost the same size as the bed itself. Dean sat on the bed, looking around the empty room. It would be the first time since Sam was born that they would sleep in separate rooms.

"Sorry about him," John was saying, sitting on his own bed, directly across from the one Dean has chosen. "I only joined last term, so I'm a bit new to everything as well. From what I can gather, he's always like that."

Dean shrugged. "Alright, but he'd better stop staring at me, it's freaking weird."

John shuffled. "I've noticed he does that too. And, er, don't take offense if he starts… well, if he starts talking to you, er, about yourself."

"What?"

John stood up, shifting from one foot to another. He lowered his voice slightly. "Look, Sherlock does this thing where he tells you stuff about yourself that… well, you wouldn't want him knowing. I've seen him do it, I've been lucky so far. But sometimes he looks at you and it's like he's reading your mind." Dean noticed John become almost glassy eyed as he spoke of this. "Genius, really."

Dean frowned, and turned to his bag, pulling things out of it. His uniform was already on the bed, a black trousers and pale blue shirt with a black blazer and navy tie, with the school crest embroidered on the front. "Like hell I'm wearing this crap." He growled under his breath, not noticing John leave the room. He rummaged through the bag until he had extracted all of its contents- underwear, jeans, t-shirts and a jacket. He also had a small silver knife his father had given him at the age of seven, in case he or Sam were ever threatened while John was away working. He tucked it carefully under his pillow.

Now aware he was alone, Dean flopped himself down on the bed and rested his head on the pillow. The bed was comfortable- more comfortable than most beds he had slept in, and he took a moment to try and block out his thoughts and relax. He began to feel himself slip away, his mind cleared slowly as the room fell into darkness-

An abrupt sound sliced through the air, and he jolted upright. The noise had been high and sharp, and incredibly sudden. Then, another noise came, a hum of a violin drifted through the air, it was apparent it was being played by someone wise to the strings of it.

Dean however, was not in the mood for a Tchaikovsky session and founds himself in the common room again, frowning at the source of the noise. "Dude, I'm trying to sleep, could you hold band practice some other time?"

Sherlock ignored him, and continued playing. John was on the other side of the room, holding a book, but his eyes were on Sherlock. His head was titled to one side, his chin slightly raised. He was concentrating.

After taking a moment to wait for a reply, Dean marched across the room and pulled the violin out of Sherlock's hands. Almost instantly, Sherlock was on his feet and Dean realised he was almost the same height as him- but Dean still had a slight advantage and made a point of tilting his head down at the Sherlock, whose sharp glare was enhanced by his thin face.

"Give me my violin." Sherlock said slowly, clicking his tongue at the end of the sentence.

Dean held it high above his head. "Will you stop playing it?"

Sherlock scoffed, and reached upwards, his eyes still glaring intensely into Dean's. However he wasn't quite tall enough to reach the instrument, with his hand brushing against the bottom of the end pin.

Sherlock then smirked, his crystal blue eyes moving down to Dean's feet, then slowly rising again as far as the top of his head, by the time they reached his face again, Sherlock was already speaking. "You're American- obviously. Where? Can't say- you're accent's too mixed. Why? Well that's obvious too. For virtually as long as you've been talking you've been moving around, haven't you? A few months west, a few months east. Bit of south there too. It's apparent from your uneven hairline that you cut your own hair. Why is that- that jacket you've got there is good quality, surely you can afford a haircut every now and then? Ah yes, because you've never thought of it. Your family isn't fully functioning, is it? Obviously no mother-figure, she would never let you out in that condition, those shoes must be years old-"

Dean's grip tightened on the violin. "Stop it." He breathed.

"And as for a father figure," Sherlock continued, sounding almost contempt, "well he obviously couldn't give a damn about you, dumping you outside without turning back." His eyes narrowed. "It's a big hall, with big walls. And walls have windows- taking notice, _observing_, that was hint one. Hint two was the fact you're here in the first place. It's clear he doesn't give a damn about your brother either, poor little-"

"You shut up about Sammy." Dean growled dangerously, raising the violin threateningly.

"Child." Sherlock finished with a smirk, his voice lowering to a whisper. "He _is_ a child though, isn't he? But you never were. And now that he's alone, and he's going to miss out too-"

Dean swung his arm, prepared to bring the violin down over Sherlock's head, but before he could, he felt a sharp pain against the back of his right knee, and it buckled under him, causing him to fall to the floor. John stood over him and snatched the violin, handing it to Sherlock, who seemed almost as surprised as Dean was.

A knock sounded on the other side of the door, breaking the silence. "I'll get it," John mumbled, stepping away from Dean and Sherlock, to retrieve the key of the door.

Dean didn't know what to do- he knew what he _wanted_ to do: hit the cocky son of a bitch over and over until his tonsils bled, but somehow it didn't seem right. He was in utter shock, as he stared at Sherlock, who was back in his armchair, cradling the violin. His eyes flickered to Dean once more, and though Dean didn't realise, Sherlock had only gathered one thing from those past minutes, and it was something that would serve him again:

_ I've found your weakness,_ he thought.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean was still on the floor when the door opened. He turned, and saw John blown back against the wall as another boy entered the room. He was taller than John, with brown hair and intense dark blue eyes. He was wearing a white shirt tucked into black trousers with a blue tie, carrying a long coat in his arms. His glare was smouldering.

He took three strides into the room, and then stopped sharply, looking around in what appeared to be annoyance. He ignored John, nodded at Sherlock and his eyes froze on Dean. He tilted his head slightly to the right, with something not unlike a half-smile appearing on his lips.

Dean scowled and the smile was gone- if it had even been there in the first place. The boy stood with a strict stance, and clenched jaw. His expression was zealous, but there was softness in his eyes.

"Castiel." Sherlock was the first to speak. He also tilted his head, mirroring the boy. "Is there a problem?"

_Castiel? _Thought Dean_, this is that bitch Naomi's son._

Castiel moved with surprising speed and silence as he stood over Dean. "Who are you?" He asked, ignoring Sherlock's initial question.

Dean stared up at him uncomfortably, and clambered to his feet. There could be no mistake- the boy spoke with an American accent, and his voice was deeper than expected. This was definitely the kid whose name he had laughed at an hour ago. He wanted to laugh now, but he couldn't find the confidence to do so.

"I don't have to answer to you, _Brando_." Dean said flatly, and he turned to head back to the dormitory.

"Actually, you do."

Dean turned around to see the boy indulging in an open smirk. "Oh yeah?" Dean shot back. "And why's that?"

Castiel firstly turned to Sherlock, but he did not look up from tuning his violin, then turned to John instead. John was still standing back against the wall by the door, swallowing. He seemed uncomfortable.

"Castiel is Prefect." Said John, narrowing his eyes at the authoritative boy. He then lowered his voice and muttered, "Every damn year."

Dean shrugged. He didn't know much about the British school system, but he knew this kid wasn't going to be bossing him around for a moment longer. "Guess who gives a crap- not me."

Castiel smirked. "I think you'll find 'giving a crap' about my authority will prove itself useful."

"Kiss my ass." Dean then left the common room and slammed the dormitory door behind him.

Castiel smiled at the shut door. Nobody who knew Castiel for more than a day would dare to cross him- let alone defy him as publicly as this. The other American would receive a stroke for this, and three would lead to detention with Naomi. This was something Castiel knew would change the defiant boy's mindset, and bring him down a notch or two.

Preparing to enter the dormitory and gracefully hand out punishment, a voice stopped him.

"Oh leave it, Castiel. Haven't you got a mother to trail after?" It was Sherlock who spoke, with proud contempt.

Castiel could feel his face burn red and he clenched his fists. Any other student would have received a stroke for disrespecting his authority, but Sherlock Holmes was the only person exempt from this very strict rule. The first reason being they seemed to have no effect on him. Strokes, detentions, suspensions, he laughed in the face of jurisdiction. However the second reason, the more intimidating one, was the fact that the man who raised Sherlock has a higher authority that anyone else- Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's uncle.

Castiel narrowed his eyes and shot a glare at John. "Did you lock that door?"

John looked back blankly. "Er, no."

"I am the only person who has the authority to use that key."

"I know."

"Did you lock that door?"

"No."

"Did Sherlock lock that door?"

"No." John didn't hesitate to speak the lie. And he didn't shift his eyes even slightly from Castiel's.

"Tell the truth."

John clenched his jaw, and could feel Sherlock looking at him. He counted each second of the pause, willing himself to say something.

"Oh sod off, you idiot." Said Sherlock, standing up, and moving swiftly across the room in front of John. "I'm thinking and you're hurting my brain with your irritating personality."

Castiel swallowed, preparing to say something else, but Sherlock wasn't finished.

Sherlock leaned forward, and whispered into Castiel's ear something that John didn't hear. Castiel's face paled, and John noticed- just for a second, a change in the boy. The esteem he had mastered a few moments ago vanished briefly, and he seemed something much less that what he had always painted himself as. A skinny boy holding a smelly coat, completely out of his depth. Then it was gone, and Castiel moved silently from the room, and left for the dormitory, allowing the door shut behind him.

"_Ain't got money_

_Ain't got no gas _

_But we'll get where _

_We're goin' if we _

_Swing real fast_"

Dean sang the words under his breath, with his headphones plugged into his ears, relishing the awesome song by Warrant. He had his head resting on his pillow comfortably with his eyes shut. He hadn't bothered to close the partition, assuming the other guys had gotten the message.

Instinctively he opened his eyes, and jumped up, to see Castiel sitting on the end of his bed with his eyes narrowed.

"WHAT THE HELL?" Dean yelled, angrily firing a badly aimed kick at him. It missed by a few inches, and Castiel did not flinch. He was staring at Dean again, the same way as before- head tilted slightly, with his eyes focused on some point of his face, studying him like a book.

"You should learn to have respect." Castiel said in a voice more sober voice than the one he had used before.

Dean sat up fully, looking Castiel right in the eye. "Let's get something straight. I don't just give you my respect. You earn it. And there's only one person on this damn planet that's done that so far, so I wouldn't hold my breath."

Castiel was confused. This was not a problem he encountered before. Maybe it was because no-one had ever felt like going to the effort of defying him before, or maybe it was because no-one had the guts to, but this rugged American with the dry attitude was something he didn't recognise, and couldn't quite compute. He decided to use a different tactic.

"You've missed two days of classes."

"Oh _cusses_." Replied Dean flatly, picking up his headphones again.

"You should get the work you've missed."

"Whatever."

Castiel considered leaving, but instead paused and sighed, staying where he was. The bed Dean had chosen was the bed Castiel would have taken- first on the left. So instead he went for first on the right, and crossed over to it, laying his coat on the bed. He realised Dean was watching him.

"What's with the pervsuit?" Dean asked loudly, obviously automatically raising his voice over the music blaring in his headphones.

Castiel blinked at him. "_Pervsuit_?" He asked blankly.

Dean pointed at the coat. "The trenchcoat, dude."

Castiel frowned. "Technically it's an overcoat."


	5. Chapter 5

**I am a terrible person and I'm really sorry I haven't updated in such a ridiculously long time. School has been such a headache, but I'm on a break now, so I'm back again. I'm going to do my best to add 2-3 chapters this week as compensation. Sorry again, and as usual- comments would be really appreciated (even if just to tell me what a lazy ass I am). Thanks for reading!**

Dean was relieved when he fell asleep, but Sam dreaded it. He spent hours sitting up in the Trenzalore common room with Amy, Rory and Doctor, long after everyone else had gone to bed. They sat in armchairs by the fire, chatting animatedly- the three had even introduced Sam to some of their friends: a dark girl with wild hair called River, a shy yet cheeky brunette called Clara and a very close couple called Craig and Sophie. Sam wished the night would never end.

Like all nights, it did end, with Rory drawing the line at 1am, reminding Sam he had classes tomorrow and would need to be up at seven. Amy blew them a kiss before heading to her dorm, and the boys entered theirs.

Sam's bed was next to Doctor's, across from Rory's, and was surprisingly comfortable. As soon as his head touched the pillow, his head began to drift off to sleep- and that night he dreamed of a vivacious redhead, and bespectacled shy blonde and a boy with razor like cheekbones full of the oddest stories you would ever hear.

Dean was shook awake by a figure he couldn't quite make out. "Dad?" He asked dumbly, and as soon as his brain sped up he sat up bolt right, to ensure his father knew he was ready to work. However, when his eyes adjusted he made out a frowning boy in uniform standing over him.

"It's seven-fifteen, Dean. It would be wise to start getting ready."

Dean began to remember everything again, and shoved the boy away with a scowl, flopping back down on the mattress. _Fricking Novak kid,_ he thought. He pulled the mattress over his head. Unfortunately, Castiel did not desist.

The dormitory was empty apart from the two of them (the others had already left for showers or breakfast) so without a second thought, Castiel grasped the mattress, and with one swift yank pulled it out from under Dean, sending him tumbling to the floor.

Dean hit the hard cold floor before he had even realised what was happening. He landed on his left side, his shoulder breaking the fall. He had managed the bite his tongue and could taste blood in his mouth, but he didn't care- he was furious. He clambered to his feet, and grabbed the Novak boy by the collar and shoving him against the nearest wall. Oddly, Castiel didn't seem particularly surprised or panicked. He held an even gaze, not faltering from Dean's eyes.

Suddenly, Dean realised he was in his underwear- that is, his boxers and the t-shirt he had worn the night before. He was instantly embarrassed, but stifled it for a moment and tightened his grip on Castiel's shirt.

"You listen to me you snub-nosed son of a bitch." He spat. "You pull a stunt like that again and I swear I'll-"

It only took a second, but suddenly it was Dean who was against the wall with Castiel standing over him. With surprising strength and speed, Castiel had switched their positions and was now holding the neck of Dean's shirt in one hand, and pressing his shoulder back with the other.

"I told you last night not to forget my authority." Castiel said slowly. "I trust you won't forget again."

Castiel then turned abruptly and left the dormitory, and Dean noticed the common room fall silent as he passed through it. However Dean was still standing with his back against the wall, staring at the doorway, wordless. When Dean expected to meet his match, he was sure it would be an adult man at the top of his game- not a skinny teenager with a stupid coat.

He decided to completely remove the last five minutes from his memory forever, and stay the hell away from that kid.

Dean managed to find Sam after they had both eaten breakfast and found him again with the group from last night.

"Sammy!" He called after him, and Sam turned and excused himself from his friends.

"You guys go on, I'll catch up." He called after them, and they smiled and nodded. When he saw his brother, his expression went flat. He turned to Dean. "Yeah?"

Dean was surprised. "Yeah? Really?" He frowned at Sam's shrug. "Okay, well how have you been doing?"

"You mean during the twelve hours since I saw you last?" Asked Sam flatly. "Yeah, Dean. I've been fine."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Fine. Good. Your, uh, posse seem alright- was I write about the stoner?" Sam's glare was answer enough. "Right then. Well I'm glad you're okay."

Sam sighed, and glanced after the friends who had waited for him anyway. "I'm liking it here. Already, I think I've made some cool friends and…" He paused, his voice going quiet. "…So far, nothing's gone wrong."

Dean crouched down so he was level with his brother. "Nothing's going to go wrong, okay? I promise."

Sam laughed, and the sound was hollow. "Don't make promises you can't keep." He muttered.

"Hey." Said Dean, putting his hand on his brother's shoulder. "I swear to you: You're going to have a great year. Trust me, all you're going to have to worry about it is trying to ace English lit, if that's a thing."

Sam laughed a little, this time he meant it. "You mean it?"

Dean wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulder, steering him to the trio. "I always mean it."


End file.
